Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,2

out late. Anything wrong?”

“No, nothing wrong. I’ve just been to take a look at Rhodri’s cottage—I wanted to make sure those English people closed the gate this time so that they can’t accuse my sheep of eating their bloody flowers!”

“They’ve gone, then?” Evan asked, looking across to the low squat outline of the shepherd’s cottage perched above the village.

“My wife saw them go this afternoon. And good riddance, I say.” Evan looked at him in surprise. Mr. Owens was usually the most mild-mannered of the villagers.

“Nothing but trouble they’ve been since they bought the place.” He moved closer to Evan. “I don’t blame old Rhodri for going to live with his daughter—he was getting on in years, poor old chap, but he had no right selling his cottage to foreigners, did he?”

“I hear they offered him a very good price,” Evan said. “And nobody in the village was interested.”

“Well, nobody in the village was daft enough to put all that money into an old shepherd’s cottage, were they? You should see it now, Mr. Evans. My wife goes up there to clean for them and she says they’ve got all mod cons, including an indoor bathroom with one of those French beedy things. Must have cost them a fortune, but then the English always did have more money than sense.”

Evan grinned. “Still, it’s good for business to have visitors, isn’t it, Mr. Owens?”

“It would be if they bought anything locally. My wife says they come with ice chests packed full of food every weekend. They probably think good Welsh produce would poison them.” His wheezy laugh betrayed years of smoking and ended in a rattling cough. “I don’t rightly know why they want to come here. They don’t seem to like us very much.”

“Lots of English people are buying cottages in Wales,” Evan said. “They like to get away from the cities for the weekend, and I can’t say I blame them. I couldn’t wait to escape from Swansea like a shot when I lived there.”

“I don’t mind English people, look you, Mr. Evans,” the farmer said, leaning confidentially close. “Old Colonel Arbuthnot who used to stay with us was the salt of the earth, wasn’t he? But then he was of the old school—he had manners. I just don’t like it when they come here and act all toffy nosed, as if they’re the landlords and we’re the peasants.”

“Do these people act like that?” Evan asked. “I can’t say I’ve seen much of them, apart from their Jaguar driving past.”

“Too bloody fast, I’ll warrant,” Mr. Owens commented. “He nearly hit my dog the other day. She’s not used to cars, is she? That Englishman came up the track, driving like a madman and at the same time my bitch decides to go after a sheep that’s wandering off. He bloody near hit her, and then instead of apologizing, he had the nerve to tell me to keep her under control. That’s the kind of people they are, Mr. Evans. Acting like they own the place.”

“Lucky they’re only here on weekends then, eh, Mr. Owens?” Evan said. “And I don’t suppose we’ll see much of them when the weather finally turns cold.”

“My, but it’s been a lovely long summer this year, hasn’t it, Mr. Evans?” Mr. Owens spoke with pride in his voice, as if he was personally responsible for the weather. “I’ve got the hay all stacked and ready for winter, which is more than I can say most years.” He looked at the rope hanging from Evan’s pack. “You’ve been climbing today, I see.”

“I have. Up on Glyder Fawr.”

“There’s some good climbing country up there—good challenging rocks.”

“A little too challenging,” Evan confessed. “At one point I thought I’d got myself stuck. I’m afraid I’m out of practice. I thought I’d have to call for the mountain rescue.”

Farmer Owens slapped him on the shoulder. “What you need is a pint at the Dragon.”

“That’s just what I was thinking,” Evan said with a smile. “A pint of Robinson’s would go down a treat. Are you heading that way too?”

The farmer glanced at the lights of his farm, just above the houses of the village. “Mrs. Owens is waiting for me, worst luck, and she doesn’t like it when my dinner dries out in the oven.” His face lit up. “But it’s Sunday, isn’t it? We usually have cold on Sundays! And she won’t know exactly how long it took me to get up to the cottage and back, will she